Prisoner of Fate
by gunshou
Summary: Imprisoned, Basch's sanity frays in the blackness beneath Nalbina, while his twin finds the stains on his honor harder to bear then the blood on his hands. Vayne Solidor has greater plans for the brothers than either of them ever dreamed.
1. Too Solid Flesh

_Men are not prisoners of fate, but only prisoners of their own minds._  
- Franklin D. Roosevelt, April 15, 1939

_What is a man  
If his chief good and market of his time  
Be but to sleep and feed? A beast, no more._  
- Hamlet, Act 4, sc. 4, l.35-7

Basch quickly learned the boundaries of his life. Heavy iron bars, too thick to bend even when he possessed his full strength, marked the perimeter of his world. Five feet across, enough room to sit with knees bent, but not to lay flat with long legs extended. Fifteen feet high, and he couldn't stretch his length to reach the ceiling or the pulleys that sat in the iron capstone of his cell. Bars set precisely nine inches apart, too close for a muscled torso to squeeze between, and while Basch figured that problem might be eventually solved by time and neglect - if they kept him alive that long - there was still the matter of the circumference of his skull. The cage itself hung suspended above a wide pit; with his arm stretched to its fullest extent, shoulder wedged painfully between the bars, rusty iron cutting into the soft underside of his turned chin, his fingertips could just barely brush the hole's rim. He could vault the distance, if he could free himself from the cage.

Although, even if he could escape the cage, the chains held him fast. Thick leather cuffs wrapped too tightly around his wrists, the steel bits of attached hoops scraping his skin. Over them, iron shackles, soldered closed, no locks to pick and the hinges a single piece that could not be levered loose. More of the same around his ankles. And at his waist, a wide, snug-fitting band of steel-reinforced leather prevented him from sitting comfortably, cutting off his breath if he bent or slouched too far. Around the belt wrapped his chains, heavy links clattering with every slight movement; they looped to the shackles at wrist and ankle, binding him to himself so he would trip if he ran. If he could run. If he had anywhere to go.

If he could break free of chains and cell, Basch knew he would still be lost. He'd been transported here while unconscious, bound and blindfolded and shoved behind bars, and he had no idea where he was, save for some kind of dungeon. The puzzle provided a welcome distraction for some time. The cells beneath Rabinastre's Royal Palace had a damp to them from their proximity to the Garamsythe Waterway sewers. This cell was dry, hot, and echoes were quickly lost beyond the confines of the rounded chamber. The desert, then - too warm for Archades, too parched for the undercity. His best guess was that he remained in Nalbina Fortress, which moved him to hopelessness. Even were he to escape the confines of his cell, strike free the chains that bound him, and wend his way out of the maze of cells and cubbyholes, he would still have miles of Estersand to cross before even catching sight of the Royal City. Too far to walk without water.

He barely noticed his confinement in the first few miserable days and nights. Aching from beatings, in anguish from the loss of his king, Basch wept because he could do little else. When he thought about it - and he had so much time in which to think - he knew Raminas' death was not really what provoked his despair. Although he felt his failure keenly, and grieved for the poor Princess Ashelia, now truly bereft of all whom she loved, he had been neatly outmaneuvered. While he blamed himself, he could not see what he should have done differently, though he went over the scene repeatedly in his mind, holding every detail in his memory up to the cold light of inspection. He found his deeds wanting - too late, too little struggle, too easily beguiled into the trap - but could not find the one action he should have taken to arrange a different fate.

The trap itself held his obsession; he wept bitterly over the visceral betrayal of trust.

For some unknown time - it felt like hours from the rawness of his throat - he screamed his brother's name, hoping to conjure his presence once more. But no one came, save a helmed, voiceless guard who occasionally brought him sustenance.

At first he refused to eat. He could not be entirely sure that the thin gruel contained no traces of poison, although if the Empire wished his death, they could achieve it more directly. But direct and Archadian politics were distant cousins, almost strangers, and he would not put it past the mind who conceived of such an elaborate ruse as played out in Nalbina to require an "accidental" poisoning of a condemned man. Next, he reasoned that someone wanted him alive, or he would be dead already, and perhaps if he refused to cooperate, someone with authority would be dispatched to deal with him - a Judge, perhaps, to whom he could plead his case. If those reasons were not enough, he relieved himself along one curve of the small cage, being unable to do otherwise, and the reek killed his appetite easily enough.

But either the Archadians played a deeper game than he could fathom, or they truly didn't care. No one came. In the end, Basch ate. Despite his despair, he did not wish himself dead.

He tried to keep the days. Light filtered in from torchstones and windows cut high in the rough face of the wall. But surrounded by iron, he had no soft surface on which to scratch a mark, save his own skin, and he quickly lost track. His beard normally grew in patchily, which was why he trimmed it close, so although he could run his hands over his face and feel stubble, it wasn't enough to mark days or weeks. Meals came without regularity, and the gruel did not agree with him; he soon could no longer trust even his own body to tell the passage of time.

It may have been weeks before Vayne Solidor deigned to visit him, accompanied by a Judge Magister in gleaming black armor. Basch huddled on the floor of his cell, knees drawn up and head bowed over his loosely crossed arms, breathing shallowly against the stiff leather belt of chains. He looked up as the Judge's clanking steps grew louder, stood with his arms at his sides, and waited. If the stench of the prison affected Vayne, he gave no sign. His closed expression promised nothing, and Basch waited, wondering what the young Solidor would employ as his opening gambit. Vayne simply watched him for several moments, evaluating his condition perhaps, then spoke. After so long with only his own ragged sounds to keep him company, Basch completely missed what he said for the rich, cultured tones of the young man's voice. He squinted, unwilling to ask clarification. Vayne smiled slightly, a motion of his mouth, not his eyes.

"It may please you to know that Dalmasca surrendered without further incident," he said. "There is no need for more bloodshed; you are the example no citizen wishes to follow. Treason is an executable offense."

"Then why am I not executed?" Basch asked, and winced at the sound of his own voice, broken from screaming. He wanted to fold his arms across his chest, that familiar stance he took when threatened, but the chains disallowed the motion.

Vayne's smile lifted his lips momentarily, then disappeared like light reflecting off steel. "The Marquis of Bhujerba kindly announced that you have been. It appears his information was a touch premature. Nevertheless, it serves its purpose. None are willing to follow you to the gallows, even if you have not truly felt the noose." He tilted his head, examining Basch critically. "I will admit, things fell into place even better than I expected. You play the patsy well, General."

Basch snarled and crossed the distance to the other side of the cage with two short strides, hobbled as he was. The Judge at Vayne's side shifted in a clatter of armor, hand dropping to one of the swords at his hip. The Solidor dismissed his bodyguard's attentiveness with a casual wave of his hand; he had only to keep his distance from the bars to remain out of Basch's limited reach. Basch gripped the bars themselves in place of his captor's throat.

"I play the fool no better than you play the schemer," he rasped. "Your plan, wasn't it?"

"Indeed, and I take justified pride in how well it worked." Vayne's dark eyes gleamed in the faint light as he lifted his chin. His smooth, unlined face remained impassive, all emotion contained in a slight narrowing of eyes, the quirk of a full lower lip. His long hair shadowed half his face, a mask as effective as the lack of expression. "I dislike the waste of resources we experienced in Nabradia. The ruse to take Dalamsca granted us a greater measure of sucess, without ruination of valuable land, without such heavy loss of life on either side."

"No," Basch spat. "Far better indeed to murder only one man and expect the rest of the kingdom to capitulate." Scorn laced the words, but Vayne nodded seriously.

"I am glad you agree, General. It proves the wisdom of choosing you as the traitor."

"You only - "

Vayne raised a hand gloved in gleaming white dragonhide, spotless and nearly glowing in the gloom. Basch was keenly aware of being coated in his own filth - dirt, grime, sweat, blood - and scowled, trying again to cross his arms.

"It is true enough that you were chosen for your appearance, a fortunate double of one of our own men. But also is it true that your character played a role. Fon Ronsenburg...not a Dalmascan name. Your fierce sense of honor is well-known, as is your background. The ruse would not have worked with a man like General Azelas, noble-born and Dalmascan-bred, and a man willing to compromise his beliefs for the sake of the greater good."

Basch rattled the bars, wishing he felt even the slightest give in the iron. "You judge men poorly, if you think Vossler capable of treason."

"Treason? Of course not. Were you not listening?" He shook his head, hair sliding over the bright epaulets on his shoulders. "General Azelas is not a man given to treason."

"And I am?"

"You are a man of inflexible honor."

It made his head hurt, this dance of words coupled with hunger, thirst, inactivity. "I do not understand your game."

"No matter." Vayne offered him a brief bow, one hand placed over his heart. "I salute you, General Ronsenburg." The Judge at his side turned sharply to look at him, surprise evident in the set of shoulders and tilt of head. Vayne nodded. "Yes, for without you, Dalmasca would still be fighting freely. Because of you, because you have held secret from everyone the truth of your twin, because no one who knows you will question your outrage at allowing your adopted homeland to become an occupied territory as is the former Republic of Landis... Because of you, the Empire has been able to annex Dalmasca with little effort. I owe you thanks for bringing my strategy to fruition."

Basch gritted his teeth, hands tightening around the bars, which cut into his fingers. "You could not have done it without a traitor."

Vayne laughed with real humor, a pleasant sound in this dismal place. "Oh? Your brother is a man of the Empire, General. The only traitor in this room is you."

Basch blinked, not understanding, then his shocked gaze swiveled to the silent Judge Magister.

Solidor bowed his head again mockingly and turned away. "Come, Gabranth. We will leave the king-slayer to his fate." He walked away, and after a moment more of staring at Basch, the Judge followed.

_Gabranth_. It was - had been - their mother's surname.

"Wait!" Basch cried. The two figures retreated without looking back, the rattle of the Judge's armor echoing loudly. "Wait!"

"Noah!" he screamed again, but no answer came.


	2. Perchance to Dream

_Why thy canonized bones, hearsed in death,  
Have burst thy cerement, why the sepulcher  
Wherein we saw thee quietly interred  
Hath...cast thee up again._  
- Hamlet, Act I, sc.4, l.47-51

He was free to pace, at least; he had not yet been bound to the shackles that hung from the roof of his cage. His legs were long, his strides normally wide; the chains around his ankles cut them in half. So -- four steps across the cage, four steps back. Walking the circumference turned out to be uneven; roughly thirteen strides brought him a little over where he started, so for a time he concentrated on placing his feet exactly so that he could end up in precisely the same spot. A pointless diversion, he knew, but one that kept him focused on something other than his imprisonment. Counting his steps, such accuracy and narrow concentration had the added benefit of keeping him from rehashing the night of the supposed treaty-signing. He'd dwelled on that too long as it was; the memory felt scarred into his brain.

But he could not maintain such control while he slept, and with little else to do and growing weaker, he slept often. His dreams were full of blood.

*******

The beat of his blood roared in his head, nearly drowning out the sounds of fighting. Basch charged forward, hoping the boy could manage on his own, knowing that even had he wished to, he could not stay behind to care for Reks. The boy was too young to be here in Nalbina, but not young enough to be safe in Rabanastre. A necessity of the situation, that children barely grown were called upon in this last defense. Basch regretted the need. He had been only sixteen himself when he took up arms to defend his homeland, and the Republic had fallen a year later. The thought spurred him forward; he denied the possibility that Dalmasca should meet the same fate.

He would not fail again.

An Archadian squad materialized to the left of him; without slowing, Bach pivoted, sword flashing. The first stroke glanced off thick steel, but the next found the seam under the shoulder, and the one after crashed down strongly enough to stave in a poorly welded knee joint. With his own lack of full plate armor, Basch could move more quickly than the Imperial troops. He took full advantage of that slight edge and whirled to place the wall at his back for leverage, interposed a foot between himself and a soldier, and shoved hard as he could. The man cursed at him as he reeled backwards, his flailing arm knocking his companion off balance. Basch leaped forward and drove the sharp edge of his buckler into that man's face, snapping the thin metal faceplate in two and feeling the crunch of bone from beneath, then thrust Loyalty through the fallen one's exposed throat. He flinched from the gurgling screams cut short, muttering a benediction for the dead under his breath as he continued up the hall. For all his years as a soldier, he still hated the necessity of killing men.

He could dwell on the regret later, sharing Omisan stouts with Vossler while they toasted the fallen until they themselves could no longer stand up straight. For now, he had a job to do, and he was already late for its execution.

Basch raced up the dark hall, his breath harsh in his ears and throat, one jagged heave of air after another as he tried to make himself move faster. He should have taken the opportunity to study Time lore years ago, but ironically never found enough hours in the day to devote to such intricate magic. Magecraft had never appealed to him anyhow; he much preferred the solidity and dependability of steel and muscle. Yet steel could break, muscle grow weak; the hume body could only do so much. Tiring, driven by the impending sense of doom that beat in his mind, Basch ran on. He caught up to two Knights who had gotten confused in the labyrinthian corridors; he paused a moment to collect them.

"This way," he rasped, and they fell in gratefully behind him. Jaran, mouth a grim line under his helm, gripped his sword too tightly as he flanked the general's left. Basch thought to correct him, then saved his breath for running. If they were too late, it wouldn't matter, and the man had nearly five full years experience in the corps -- he could manage himself. The other soldier, younger, was one of Vossler's regiment. Basch couldn't remember the name, but knew he had a pretty wife who'd moved with him to Rabanastre from the nomad camp in the Giza Plains, and she now rounded with a child due in a few short months. He prayed the man survived to see the birth, knew in his heart the chance was a slim one.

They launched themselves up another staircase, battled through a small knot of guards thundering down from above, and plowed up the next interminable hallway. Basch growled in frustration as they ran through another corridor empty of green or tan. The reinforcements were nowhere to be found, or were _they _the reinforcements?

"Where in all the hells is Vossler?" Basch demanded harshly as they rounded yet one more corner with no sign of their comrades. He sagged against a wall, trying to catch his breath.

"Sir," Jaran panted, "they took the left path, hoping to outflank the Archadians. I lagged behind to tend to Silas, here, and we were separated from the rest. They might be up ahead or behind -- either is likely."

Basch shook his head and ran the splayed fingers of his free hand through his hair, dragging sweat-soaked strands from his face. "Right, then, we go on without them. The throne room is where the King will be. It cannot be far. Hurry! All is lost if we are too late!" He shoved off the wall and ran onward, the other two close behind. The pulse that beat behind his eyes threatened to blind him, and his gasps sounded like the ragged edge of panic. They had tarried too long. He knew it, and his stomach churned with fear and doubt.

Then he saw the doors, looming ahead at the end of the hall, ancient iron carved everywhere with the symbols of the Dynast-King. "We found them!" cried the younger man, Silas; they charged forwards. The three soldiers burst through the unsecured doors, running full tilt up the center of the room. The shadows were thick in the corners, lights dimmed, but Basch could nevertheless make out the figure of Raminas, sprawled on the throne, unmoving.

"No!" Basch skidded to a halt and stared wildly around him as Imperial troops materialized out of the gloom. A quick count revealed numbers the three of them alone could not hope to face, and no sign of Vossler or any other Dalmascan soldiers. Jaran and Silas, neither men cowards, readied their blades as the Imperials rushed in. Basch attacked, not waiting for quarter to be given, his goal the slumped king. His blade whistled through the air as he slashed, but he had no space in which to appreciate her song. Bodies pressed around him, and he heard a scream as Silas fell, leg crushed by the heavy swing of a mace. Another thud ended the young man's life. An Imperial fell to Loyalty's sharp edge, then a second, and a third, but more waded into the fray to take their places. Jaran shoved aside an Imperial and set his back against Basch's, but the general twisted to dodge a sword and Jaran, too, was pulled down. Basch abandoned the niceties of form and swung wildly, hoping to keep the Archadian soldiers at bay, but the sheer press of numbers overwhelmed him. A foot lashed out, catching him behind the knee; he buckled, regained his balance, swung and stepped and something heavy crashed into him from behind. He bowed under the weight of the blow, again found his footing, and roared in sudden fury that it should come to this, after all he had done to make amends for losing Landis, all his training and adherence to duty and hope for redemption wasted in nothing more than a brawl, dragged down at last by a pack of dog soldiers.

Loyalty was struck from his hand; he could not see where she spun. He flung himself forwards, trying yet to reach the throne, to help his king, and the remaining Imperials grabbed him by the shoulders. A mailed elbow smashed into the back of his head where the curve of his skull met his neck, and the room slipped sideways. Basch cried out, and the chill wash of a spell descended, robbing him of voice and strength. Wrapped in silence magick, he could hear only his harsh panting, each inhalation a sob, as they forced his head down to the floor, arms wrenched straight out to either side. He sagged, nauseated from the blow to the head, and retched as they dragged him back. He stumbled over a body - Silas, who would never again see his wife display a desert flower in her brown hair, never meet the child she carried beneath her breast. Basch's boots left bloody marks on the plush carpet as he staggered, yanked towards the pillars that lined the edges of the room.

A man in Dalmascan armor, previously hidden by the balcony's shadows, stepped forward slowly into the light. For a wildly hopeful moment, the general thought of Vossler, but this man was fair, and the armor he wore identical to Basch's own. A red-stained hand gripped Loyalty, blood dripping from her smooth edge. Shaggy blond hair fell into eyes the same faded blue as his; the man's free hand splayed through golden strands in a heart-rendingly familiar gesture. Basch felt the world spiraling away, all his assumptions dissolving into ashes. He gaped open-mouthed, unbelieving, as his mirror image stared back without expression. After standing long enough for the full effect of his presence to be felt, Basch's twin turned his back and walked away.

Enveloped in darkness under the balcony, the soldiers who held him shoved him down onto his knees; Basch's cries of recognition and horror were lost to the silence magicks that bound him. He surged to his feet, momentarily shaking the grip of the Imperials, but they recaught his arms and yanked them out at a painful angle that prevented him from squirming loose. He shook his head frantically, trying to shake the apparition, the ghost, for surely it was a haunting, this creature striding from the throne with Raminas' blood on his face and chest and hands, Basch's own sword raised up and back and then thrust, quivering, into the king's heart. It had to be a ghost, because this couldn't be happening, Basch could not be in two places, could not conceive of this sort of treason, and yet here he was, confronting the boy, Reks, his voice cold and low and - oh, _gods_, could no one hear the nasal Archadian vowels, the clipped cadence? Could the boy not notice this man's paleness, desert tan lost in the space of an hour? Reks begged to know why, and Basch's ghost answered with hate in his voice, a loathing such as Basch himself had never expressed.

The boy dropped to his knees, a knife in his gut, Basch's expression of chill satisfaction filling his vision. A fresh wave of Imperials filed in and rushed forward to lay hands on the killer, held him fast as a new player strode forth from the shadows, proclaiming Basch's treachery as good for the Empire even while denouncing his name. Basch himself screamed curses until his voice broke, his body straining against the men who confined him, their hands digging hard into his biceps and shoulders. Mailed fingers clawed into the back of his neck, shoving him back down to his knees even as he writhed and threw himself forwards, struggling to move, to break free and accost the apparition who falsely mirrored his stance.

It had to be some form of necromancy. Noah was _dead_.

Reks' eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped, finally unconscious. The noble who'd come forward with the reinforcing soldiers tilted his head, letting thick, dark hair slide along the side of his face.

"Imprison the insurgent," he ordered calmly. "Get the boy to a physicker, quickly. We shall do as we can for him, and send him home. He is no longer a part of this fight." The young man turned then, and he looked directly at the shadows where Basch thrashed. "Indeed, the fight is now over. Dalmasca is no more; only the Empire remains. For Archadia's glory." He turned back and watched dispassionately as Imperial troops dragged Basch's phantom away. The imposter in their grip struggled, but a sharp blow to the face stilled him long enough for the soldiers to drag him to his feet and shove him towards the doors. The young Archadian noble winced almost imperceptibly and arrested their progress with a sharp word.

"Stop! He is not to be harmed," he ordered with certain authority. "He will pay for his treason after facing a Judge Magister as required by law; you will comport yourselves properly until his fate is decided."

The Imperials snapped to attention, those with free hands saluting smartly. "Yes, Lord Vayne," they chorused, and herded their captive away with no further violence. Others carefully gathered Reks from the floor and bore him from the room. Others still busied themselves with the rest of the fallen, laying out Dalmascan and Archadian bodies side by side.

Basch continued to thrash ineffectually while they worked, until the arm of one of the Imperials drew taut across his throat. Everything faded to sick grey; exhausted and grief-stricken, he let it go.


	3. A Bloody Deed

_Who calls me villain? Breaks my pate across?  
Plucks off my beard and blows it in my face?  
Tweaks me by the nose? Gives me the lie i' th' throat  
As deep as to the lungs? Who does me this?_  
- Hamlet, .582-6

Basch swam back to consciousness slowly, first becoming aware of sounds: men in armor moving, something dragging over carpet, a clatter as someone kicked an object out of his path. The world around him came back into focus as he concentrated on those noises. A wooden shackle trapped his wrists in front of him, and he had been propped against a nearby pillar like so much refuse needing disposal. Basch blinked, trying to clear his vision of the black clouds that clung stubbornly around the edges of things. He held himself still otherwise, trying not to draw attention until he could act swiftly. Experimentally, he clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and heard nothing. He hadn't been out very long if the silence spell were still in effect.

Imperial soldiers worked quickly; the larger room had been mostly cleared of bodies, including the King's. The last few troopers toiled under the watchful eye of the Archadian lord, who stood with his hands loosely curled at his sides and his expression distant. He appeared lost in thought, but looked up sharply when an errant foot struck a dead Dalmascan's face. His reprimand could have curdled milk, and the chastised soldier bent, red-faced under his raised helm, and very carefully gathered the corpse without further disrespect, unintentional or otherwise.

The scene made little sense to Basch in his confused state, but he took the opportunity to shift position while all attention lay elsewhere. Noise behind him indicated he hadn't been left unwatched after all. Metal-sheathed fingers bit into his shoulder as he was dragged upright on his knees; Basch tensed, gathering his strength, then flung his body sideways into the guard s legs. The man yelped a curse and staggered while the general rolled out of the way and clambered to his feet. His own legs had gone numb, and his knees locked painfully; with a grunt, he forced his unresponsive limbs to move, which sent him careening into the pillar directly ahead. Bouncing his shoulder off the stone, he used the momentum to fling himself in the direction he thought the door lay. He had to get the hells _out_, find Vossler - he wouldn't entertain the idea of Vossler already slain - and get back to Rabanastre to regroup with any survivors and plan a solid defense of the city. His tingling legs felt like dead weight as he loped awkwardly, but Basch would be damned if he didn't at least try to do his duty to Dalmasca and return to the Royal City with all speed before the Empire could move forward with their treachery.

He couldn't react quickly enough to the Imperial that seemed to materialize out of the shadows in front of him. He stumbled, tripping over his own feet, and the soldier's first grab missed him by inches. Ducking his head, Basch pivoted and lashed out with a shaky kick that managed to connect with the Imperial's shin. He brought his cuffed hands around, trying to slam the edge of the shackle into his opponent's face, but the man leaned back and blocked with his forearm. Basch gripped the arm's smooth metal plating and shoved with all his strength, then abandoned the fight in favor of escape. He'd gone only a short distance before a hand caught in his hair, jerking him to a painful stop. Basch cried out soundlessly and struggled to tear loose, ignoring the sting of strands ripping free from his scalp, but the guard ceased pulling and pushed instead, seizing him by the neck and throwing him bodily to the ground.

Basch crashed down; before he could recover, the Imperial planted a knee in his spine and leaned in with all his weight. Gasping for breath, the Dalmascan general scrabbled ineffectually at the smooth stone pavings, but could find no purchase before the second guard reached them and added his own weight to the pile. The first soldier, his hand still tangled in Basch's hair, slammed the general's face brutally into the floor. Basch went still, and they hauled him up, dragged him back a few paces, and shook him violently, cursing his stupidity. The world went vaguely grey again, and Basch wondered dimly how many blows to the head he could suffer in a short span of time before he incurred a serious injury.

In the short time the struggle had lasted, the other Imperials finished their tasks, oblivious to the fighting in the room's shadows. The Archadian lord waited patiently until his troops left, then walked with unhurried deliberate steps to where Basch sagged between the soldiers who gripped his arms. Basch found himself unable to raise his head, and stared uncomprehendingly at polished brass fittings on tall boots unsoiled by blood or dirt. The young lord spoke over him to his men.

"Take him below. He'll be interrogated and imprisoned for now."

"Sir," the man on Basch's left said, bowing his head. "Lord Vayne, shall we take care with him as with the other one?"

"It's a little late to ask," the other muttered, his voice muffled by his lowered helm.

Lord Vayne tilted his head again, regarding his captive. And now Basch found strength enough to raise his head, glaring with fierce pride and rage, and lunged up off his knees with enough force to nearly tear free. The young man took a step back, raising his hand without much concern, and stop magicks swirled around Basch, holding him suspended yet aware as time stretched and halted its enduring march. Sounds elongated into nothingness, colors spun out into elastic threads of light; the pulse of blood in Basch's veins thundered in his aching skull, each deliberate thump echoing through eternity.

"No," Vayne said softly, "there is no need to be overly solicitous with this one. Nevertheless, take care not to kill him, or cause permanent damage. He will need to be lucid for his interrogation. I will meet you below."

The men acknowledged the order and pulled Basch over to a pillar behind which rested a pile of sacking and rope.

"Keep the Stop on 'im until we get him down the stairs," one said, and the other grunted agreement. They threw the sack over Basch's head; it covered him completely. Next, the ropes wound around him, tightly binding the sack to his body, arms tied to sides, legs and ankles bound together. Basch waited, helpless in the grip of the magicks. The silence spell had worn off, he thought, but the stop spell prevented him from making noise just as effectively. He could not resist as one of the men hefted him up over a shoulder and began to carry him from the hall.

Basch tried futilely to pull away, his thoughts fluttering like wild birds inside his head. The room stretched and blurred, they were behind the pillars in the shadows, then at the head of a staircase, then rounding a corner. He had no sense of movement, only flashes of discomfort that came with each slow beat of his heart: a ridged shoulder guard digging into his sternum, his head dangling down, blood roaring behind his eyes.

And then sensation returned in a rush as the spell elapsed, and he convulsed, his body finally obeying the desperate impulses of his mind. With a startled curse, the soldier lost his balance and slid. Basch twisted, trying to shove off his perch and get down to the floor where he could achieve some leverage.

"Just drop him!" came an angry growl from behind. "He wants to get down so bad, let 'im down."

"Good plan," the man holding him grunted, and Basch was suddenly heaved up and over, and falling.

They were on stairs.

Basch cursed, bit his tongue hard as he hit the first riser and tumbled down. Blood filled his mouth and nose as he rolled; he fought to keep his body limp, but gained momentum as he fell and crashed full tilt into the wall at the edge of the landing. He lay stunned as the soldiers clattered down behind him and could do nothing to protect himself while they kicked him to the edge of the next flight.

"One more should knock the fight out of ya," proclaimed one of the Imperials, and he planted the toe of his boot hard in Basch's stomach, sending him tumbling down more stairs. By the time he rolled to a stop at the base of the next wall, Basch's head was ringing, and he vomited helplessly. Struggling to sit up so he wouldn't suffocate, he cringed away from the sounds of the guards descending towards him. Punches and kicks rained down; with the bag obscuring everything and his senses spinning, he couldn't predict where they would strike him next. He finally settled for curling up on his side, trying to protect his soft parts with his bound hands without allowing the block of the shackle to be driven into his gut. A vicious kick in the small of his back made him vomit again; he choked on blood and the fetid air inside the bag, fighting valiantly to stay conscious.

"Now, you bastard, stay still," a soldier ordered. Basch nodded weakly, moaning agreement. They caught him up again, throwing him unceremoniously over a shoulder, and continued downstairs. Basch lost track of time, aware only of constant descent and the miserable ache of his body. Eventually, he was dumped back on the ground, the ropes around him cut away and the sacking ripped off. He gasped for air, rolling over and drawing his knees up to his chest while the Imperials exclaimed in disgust at the mess. A hand wound back into his hair, jerking his head up.

"You see what you did, you filthy sand-rat?" Nasty fluids had leaked onto the soldier's gleaming armor, and the man shoved his faceplate up, scowling. "Takes forever to polish this shit up, it does."

"My... apologies..." Basch panted, then lashed out with both feet, aiming at the man's ankles.

"Oh, no you don't," the soldier sneered, easily avoiding the weak kick. "I've had enough of you. His Lordship doesn't care what condition you're in, long as you're able t'talk. Well, that leaves us a lot of room." Smirking, he hauled his mailed fist back and punched Basch in the face.

Throughout the brutal beating that followed, Basch tried only to keep his bound hands up in front of his eyes, but after that initial clout, the soldiers favored blows to his body. They stripped his armor, gloves, and footwear away, leaving him clad only in reinforced linen and thin cotton, defenseless against their fists and boots. Pain and nausea swelled as he felt ribs crack and soft tissues bleed; he tried to stay focused on a plan of some sort, some way to break free once they left him alone, but his concentration shattered under the onslaught and it was all he could do to continue breathing. Hands twisted in his shirt and they dragged him to an open cell, where they continued to work him over until he lay completely still, unable to do more than twitch involuntarily in response to their movements.

"There now," one of them huffed, "puke all y'want in there, y'dirty shit."

The iron door of the jail slammed shut with a ringing finality. Basch lay on his back, nearly senseless; he turned his battered face towards the hall and tried to see through watering and swollen eyes. The soldiers were pawing through his belongings, searching for whatever small valuables he might carry into battle as tokens. They paused at the the echo of footsteps; in this deserted portion of the keep, small sounds carried clearly. The Imperials pulled themselves together with alacrity, using Basch's leathers to wipe his blood off their armor as best they could and securing their faceplates up so they would be recognized.

The newcomer proved to be Lord Vayne again, approaching confidently from the dungeon's gloom. The two soldiers snapped to attention, saluted, and positioned themselves nonchalantly in front of Basch's crumpled form. The nobleman gestured them to stand at ease, not even glancing towards the cell.

"Any problems, gentlemen?"

The guards stared straight ahead. "Not really, sir," one said. "He had a bit o'fight in 'im, but settled down reasonably enough after awhile."

"Did he?" Vayne's tone took on a frosty edge of displeasure. "I do hope you've left enough of him to interrogate, as you were ordered."

"Aye, sir," the other soldier responded promptly. "He's not in the best of shape, but we imagine he'll answer all questions right smart now."

"I'm sure he will." Something lingered in the man's voice, some note that Basch couldn't quite identify in his bewildered state. Regret? "You have done well, gentlemen. The Empire thanks you for your service."

"M'Lord, if I may?"

"Yes?"

"If your Lordship would be kind enough to explain something? There's two of 'im? And one works for us, right?"

"Indeed. I imagine that knowledge does far more to hurt the General than your ministrations."

"Um. Right. Well..." The Imperial shifted uncomfortably, and restrained himself from glancing behind at Basch's prone body.

"What is your question, soldier?"

"Well, I suppose you'll make the other one stand trial, so he says all the right things?"

"Perceptive of you to think of that."

"Well, how're you going to keep em both locked up until then? Won't people notice there's two?"

Vayne smiled coldly. "Yes, that would lead to pointed questions. Do not worry, General Ronsenburg will be moved to a secure location and tended carefully. None will even know of his existence."

Basch's mind raced in circles. Where could they put him and maintain such secrecy along with his life? For what reason would they still need him breathing once his part in this horrible farce was over? And Noah, standing trial in his place? Anguish rose in him, eclipsing the pain of his wounds. He felt sick again; his thoughts broke apart and reformed in patterns that made no sense, and he couldn't hold on to any rational musings.

The two soldiers were looking now at each other, perhaps realizing the flaw in Vayne's pronouncement.

"My Lord Vayne," one said, then garbled a scream as the nobleman's sword buried itself in his exposed throat. Even Basch caught his breath at the suddenness of it. The other soldier backed away, incomprehension writ large in his widening eyes. Before he could do more than stammer out a protest, Vayne cut him down. The bodies fell heavily to the stone floor; Basch found himself staring into the shock-frozen face of one of his tormentors, only a few feet of space and the iron bars between them. Blood trickled from the neat wound, slowly filling the cracks between the paving stones and running down the slope of the floor to Basch's outstretched hand. He winced away and tried futilely to will unresponsive and aching limbs to move.

Vayne stooped, his blade already sheathed, and gently pulled the bodies beside each other.

"I am sorry," he said quietly, and sounded as though he meant it. "But may your spirits be consoled with the knowledge that you have well-served the Empire's cause in this. Like so many today, you are unfortunate casualties of war." His gaze flicked to Basch, and narrowed. "If not for you, General, this would be unnecessary. Think on that."

He brought from his pocket a small chunk of blue stone that glowed with arcane energy. Brow furrowed, he concentrated while the stone's light intensified. Mist gathered around his hand, coalescing into a dense vapor that took on a red hue. The tension suddenly released, and the soldiers' bodies burst into flame within their armor. Basch flinched from the extreme heat and watched in horror as the corpses blackened.

"The magicite increases the spell's power," Vayne explained casually. "You understand I can hardly call upon other guards to dispose of the bodies. I would have to kill them, too. Do you see what a liability you are, General?"

"Then kill me," Basch croaked, tasting sweat and blood on his lips as he spoke. "Why keep me alive?"

"The gambit has not finished playing out." Vayne's mouth curved as he raised the stone. "Be at ease, General Ronsenburg. You shall soon find yourself in new quarters, and again serving a purpose."

The glow of the stone brightened, soft blue pulsing through the orange-white flames, Vayne s body silhouetted in the light. The image chased Basch down into unconsciousness, and for once, he welcomed the dark.


	4. Slave to Memory

_In a real dark night of the soul, it is always three o'clock in the morning, day after day._

- F. Scott Fitzgerald

Noah had, long ago and for only a brief time, been afraid of the dark.

Truthfully, dark itself bothered him less than what might lay in the dark, waiting, watching a small boy sleep, preparing for that defenseless moment when the sheet slid down to tangle with splayed legs, breaking the protection granted by a thin covering against encroaching horror. Silent, seething things that crouched in the dark, patiently waiting for a sleeping jaw to go slack and emit a soft, rumbly snore of deep oblivion. Horrid, spindly, furry-legged things that hid in the dark, and levitated noiselessly to land half-in an open mouth, then _scurry_ back and forth over lips and tongue until the child, vaguely irritated by the distant sensation, might swim up from dreams of sky pirate adventures, and without thinking close his open mouth with a gritty _crunch_ and come fully, shockingly awake as a sudden _foulness_ spread over his tongue while his heart stopped and his breath caught and his ears rang with the sound of another boy's muffled giggles from the next bed...

On reflection, Basch could understand why his twin spent the next six months sleeping with a lit glowstone on the windowsill and a weighty stick in his hand. Fortunate that they had been still children, and Basch was able to grow in adult teeth to replace the ones lost when Noah finished vomiting and turned his attention to his brother. Their parents, woken by all the yelling and the breaking lamp, spent nearly half an hour calming Noah down enough for the story to get told. Father had rolled his eyes and taken himself back to bed, after promising that Basch would be doing chores enough for five people if that would make him too tired for mischief. Mother, after sending Noah off to wash his face -- which he did relentlessly, scouring face and teeth until his skin glowed ruddy and his gums bled -- cleaned the mess from Noah's side of the room, made up the bed with fresh linens, righted the nightstand, swept up the glass, and mopped the oil -- all without speaking and while Basch fidgeted from foot to foot with blood welling down his chin. He scrubbed it off with a sleeve and swallowed thickly, feeling sicker with each moment.

Finally, after turning Noah's sheet down neatly and plumping his pillow, she came over and sat down on Basch's rumpled bed. She looked at him for a long moment; he studied his feet and brushed absently at the hair that fell into his eyes. Just as he could no longer stand it, she sighed heavily and reached her arms out to him. Basch shuffled forward and stood with her hands on his bony shoulders -- barely eight years old and his lanky frame already bore more the solidity of farm work than the chub of indulgent childhood. His mother brushed the wheat-blond hair back from his face and studied him; rather than meet her eyes, he focused his gaze on the gold ring glinting from one of her earlobes. After an eternity in which his stomach had time to chew through his intestines and he wondered if saying he was sorry would even matter now, she spoke.

"Basch, love, this time you've walked the border of cruelty."

Her quiet condemnation made him feel, if possible, even worse. He could hear Noah down the hall in the washroom they shared, retching again. He squirmed, dragged his sleeve over his face some more, and refused to sniffle. She waited for him to say something, but he couldn't think of words that would fix anything, so he remained stubbornly silent but for the hitching suck as he tongued the bloody spot in the front of his mouth.

His mother's lips twisted a bit, as if in sympathy, and she stood, squeezing his shoulders. "Sit, Basch." He did, and she left the room. He rubbed his fingers in the bloodstain on his nightshirt sleeve while he listened to the low murmur of her voice from down the hall, Noah's muffled reply, and the sound of water splashing.

She returned with a damp cloth and a glass of water, which she gave to him. Basch drank gratefully and set the glass aside so she could wipe his face and tug the ruined shirt off him. Balling it up in one hand, she cupped the other under his chin and ordered him to show her his teeth. He did, unable to resist sticking his tongue through the hole. His mother chuckled softly and tweaked his nose.

"Get under the covers, Basch. Go to sleep; your father will have you awake by dawn, if not before."

"Yes, Mother," he said dutifully. She leaned over to kiss his brow, one hand smoothing over his hair and the other pulling the sheet up to his chin. "Mumma--"

"I know you are sorry, Basch, you needn't tell me. But someone else should hear what you have to say, hmm?"

She left him again, returning with a subdued Noah and a new lamp, which she placed on the nightstand between them and turned down low. She tucked Noah in, kissed his raw face, ruffled his hair, and sternly told them both to behave. The twins stayed silent long enough for her footsteps to retreat all the way down the stairs, then Noah sat up and glared at his brother.

"You better not think about sleeping again, Basch. _Ever_."

Basch sat up as well and pulled a face. "As though you'll ever touch a spider again, after that."

"Who said anything about spiders? I saw Mut catch a snake in the stable yesterday." He bared his teeth ferociously. "He nailed it with his claws, then flipped it around, chased after it a bit, pounced, and finally bit its head off. I bet he could find another one. Or two. Or more."

"Aye, good luck getting that cat to help you do anything," Basch shot back. "No way you'll drop a snake on me without my noticing."

"Fine. Sleep easy, then. More the fool, you are." Noah flopped back down, then savagely swiped his hands over his head, shoving shaggy curls away from his face and neck. The trailing ends brought back the feeling of skittering legs and made him a little ill. Tomorrow he would ask for a closer haircut, which both would receive, Noah standing absolutely still as the razor trimmed around his ears and Basch tapping his fingers restlessly against his thigh while the scissors took inches off his unruly locks. But for now Noah merely raked the blond strands back and tucked them up under his head, then scratched all over his face until the prickles of remembered sensation disappeared. They lay awhile in silence, Noah with his eyes squeezed shut and his fingers balled into the sheet, Basch with his eyes open and staring at nothing. After hearing his twin restlessly turn over for maybe the fifth time, Basch sat up again.

"Noah --"

"Don't you dare apologize!"

Basch blinked, startled, as his brother's eyes popped open and gleamed in the low flicker of the lamp flame.

"Why not?"

Noah grinned at him, all animosity gone like Basch's three front teeth. "Because then I'll feel bad for what I'm planning to do to _you_."

Basch smirked, sticking his tongue out through the hole in his smile. With a whomp against the pillow, he rolled over, giving Noah his back and thereby daring him to do his worst.

So easily did they forgive each other in those days; reconciliation came quickly and wholeheartedly once the storm of emotions passed. Words hindered them both; Basch didn't remember ever telling Noah he was sorry about the spider, but he didn't need to -- his twin easily read his thoughts and feelings. Actions better suited them, anyway; they kept a running tally of pranks that rivaled each other in ingenuity and drove their parents to distraction. Basch privately thought the spider in the mouth near the top of the list, if only for how long it took before Noah could extinguish the glowstone before sleeping.

In the stygian black of Nalbina's dungeons, the whole thing seemed much less funny to Basch.

* * *

It took time before he fell into that blackness, though. At first, the Archadians left him in the relative comfort of a cell he could see.

Despite the gloom within, Nalbina Fortress had torches and glowstones and even windows cut high into the walls that let in light and air. Its prison, located far underground, had fewer of these; the stones were darkened with age and grime, and passages twisted under high ceilings and thick arches that bore the immense weight of the massive structure. In Nalbina, an inmate could feel the solidity of the Fortress atop him and know the impossibility of escape. But even here, light filtered into the cells and the dry desert air circulated enough to spread the hopeless cries of those imprisoned.

Basch's cage hung in an oubliette -- a hole underground where he could be locked away and forgotten. After his interview with the Lord Vayne, guards lowered the cage out and into the hole, far enough that Basch could see neither rim nor floor. He dimly made out row upon row of narrow arches supporting the hole's sides, but his arm's length proved too short to reach the stones or the potential passageways beyond. He growled in frustration, shoving against the bars until he wore off skin on shoulder and jaw and the manacles cut into his wrists, but he groped at nothingness several feet away from the hole's wall. Finally withdrawing his arm, Basch stood with head bowed, thoughtfully rubbing the length of chain that ran from waist to ankles, lifting the heavy links and letting them fall one by one. Then he moved over to the furthest curve of the cage and crouched low, gathered his strength, and flung himself at the other side. The whole enclosure jounced wildly, knocking him off balance. Frowning, he adjusted his stance and tried again. And again. And again.

Finally, he got the damned thing swinging the way he wanted, and stuffed his broad shoulder through the bars, stretching his fingertips to their shaking limit, ignoring the now sharp burn at his wrist and the constriction at his waist, a low whine of frustration and effort echoing up from his throat...and brushed only air.

Basch snatched his arm back through the bars without noticing how he scraped half its length against the rough iron. It hardly mattered amidst the bruises and cuts from his rough treatment at the hands of the men who'd dragged him down to this claustrophobic stockade. Gripping the bars, he rattled them fiercely, throwing his whole body behind the effort and screaming his vexation when they refused to budge even the slightest bit. Furiously, he kicked the cage, then howled in mingled pain and surprise as the thing bounced and he fell, his foot aching now as much as his hands. He lay a moment in a bitter sulk, then surged upright and forced the cage to swing again, sure that this time he would reach, he _must_ reach, never mind that he couldn't pass through the bars, if only he could _reach_--

A high-pitched rasp of steel penetrated his focused desperation. On the next upswing, the thick chain holding up the whole apparatus slipped in its pulley and the cage dropped several sickening feet. Basch froze, gasping in fright and with arms outflung -- like he had a hope of keeping the ironmongery from crashing Faram only knew how far and leaving him broken and probably impaled on jagged steel bits while his life ran out over the course of agonizing hours. Slowly, the cage arced less and less until it hung level again. Basch took an experimental step; the contraption jittered with his weight as it had before, but the chains held. He didn't drop further.

Carefully, he set his back against the bars and slid down, mindful of the stiff leather cutting into his ribs and hips. Propping his elbows on his bent knees, he gripped his head in his hands and squeezed fistfuls of hair until pain lanced sharply across his scalp. He breathed shallowly and wondered what in the twelve hells to do next.

After several minutes passed, he became aware that the gloom was deepening.

Basch tilted his head back against the bars and squinted up, trying to peer past the capstone of his cell. Ambient light from above colored everything in dull hues of brown and grey, but he saw the bars and the wall beyond them. Except he could no longer quite discern the stone arches from the blank spaces beneath them. He rolled to one knee and thrust his face through the gap between two bars, trying to detect activity at the lip of the hole, but if anything stirred in the murk, it remained too far away for his sight. The soft light didn't flicker; it simply faded. The glowstones that lined the room above were going out.

They were going to leave him in the dark.

Fine. He was no tiny child, to be frightened by imaginary goblins and the blackness behind his own eyelids. He settled back on his rear, rested the curve of his skull between the bars, and closed his eyes.

Basch had never in his life known total darkness. Rabanastre's night unfolded in drowsy rumbles, as residents of the Royal City conducted business long into the clear desert evenings. The silken blue-black, punctuated by dozens of torches, glowstones, and small lanterns, never seemed all that threatening. The paling's warm, steady glow surrounded the city walls, visible only after sundown and stretching up over Rabanastre like a blanket. Even in the desert, a million stars lit up the sky, a distant white sparkle above caravans and training camps and the occasional adventurous soul who wanted simply to spend a few nights roughing it. Before that, on the road, campfires and paling siguls; before that, the flare of distant raging fires in the fields. Long ago, a low lantern set between beds, and the ambient light of the moon.

He knew darkness could have a texture, qualities beyond the simple absence of light -- the stale, arid dark of caves and tunnels, the furry and thick gloom in Rabanastre's undercity -- but never gave it much thought. Now, with light seeping away, Basch could feel the dark pressing on him, a physical weight as real as the chains that bound his body. The fine hairs on his arms and neck raised; he felt slightly ill at ease despite his angry bravado. His eyes opened; he could just make out his own form, tanned skin the palest object in the deep murk. With his gaze unfocused, the shadows seemed to move, creeping slowly over the floor of the cage and filling the air until his flesh crawled with the sensation and he shifted uncomfortably.

Feeling silly for his discomfort, he stood and paced the circumference of his cage for a time, one guiding hand trailing across the bars. He closed his eyes and let the rhythm of his steps lull him into memory, into a past that didn't allow for cages and thrashings and a brother who sought to seriously harm him.

The thought turned his attention away from his plight. He wondered if Noah would return to talk to him, now that Basch was exiled to this forgotten hole in the ground. He wondered if Noah would be able to meet his stare, would be able to answer the only question he had left, now that Vayne had supplied the how and the who. Basch's entire focus had quickly become the why of his betrayal.

Noah, his twin, his blood and bone and beating heart, willingly consigned Basch to death. Had grown his hair and beard, researched and procured a duplicate of Basch's uniform, had been wrestled to the ground, imprisoned, and forced to stand trial as Basch, all for what? To subjugate a kingdom Noah must have cared little about? Because Emperor Gramis asked him to? Because Vayne required it of him? Noah had always felt the pull of those who needed him; he wanted to be useful and prided himself on his dependability. But to blindly serve those who set Landis to burning...

Basch couldn't reconcile that image with his fiercely proud and stubborn twin. Noah had changed. Had Basch? Did Noah ever spend hours pouring over detailed reports of a young Dalmascan knight, trying to match the words on the page to the image he held in his mind?

A soft, scraping sound eventually intruded on Basch's reverie. He stopped pacing and opened his eyes to discover the light had failed completely. He could no longer even see himself. Suddenly, the hanging cage seemed much more precarious. Basch carefully lowered himself to the cell's floor, one hand sliding along the bars until he settled on his knees without shaking the thing too much. He strained his ears, waiting for the sound to repeat itself.

After an indeterminate time, he heard it again. A scraping, like stone over stone. Boots over stone? Claws? Too soft to discern, the noise came once more before utter quiet wrapped around him.

"Stones settling," Basch said, and the sound of his own voice, loud and a bit strained, spooked him. Feeling a little ridiculous for the sudden bloom of gooseflesh -- he was a man grown, for Fandaniel's sake, and a soldier used to the field -- Basch crossed his arms tightly over his chest and closed his eyes. Later, he couldn't be sure when he fell asleep; if he dreamed, it was of chains, and iron bars, and darkness.

* * *

He measured his days in moments of light. For near thirty minutes, twice a day, the lanterns at the rim of the hole illuminated dimly. A mute guard lowered down a bucket containing a single canteen of water, bread of dubious quality, a covered bowl of the thin gruel, and occasionally some greens or fruit. Basch ate the lukewarm gruel quickly, horded the other small items for later hours when his stomach complained too bitterly to let him sleep, and carefully rationed the canteen until the next basket came. Within weeks -- or so he guessed, having no real way to tell -- what little fat he'd had melted off him, leaving his muscles ropey and stark against his bones. He grew dizzy each time he stood, but he made himself spend some time between baskets pacing the interior of his cage, one hand trailing along the bars to keep to the circumference. He still held to the faint hope of escape, so Basch tried to stay active, stretching as much as the chains would allow, doing squats and bends in the center of the cage until his swimming head forced him to quit, curling the full canteen until his thirst got the better of him.

Basch found it more difficult to tell whether or not his eyes were open once the lights at the surface faded out and blackness rushed in to fill the wide spaces of the oubliette. It made him claustrophobic; although he could reach around him and feel only air, the dark had a heavy, oppressive quality that induced him to curl up against one side of his prison, knees drawn to chin and arms wrapped around himself.

He hated it.

He hated feeling useless, undone by the simple absence of light. He detested the feel of the hairs all over his skin standing at every faint stir of the air, shivers racing down his spine for no particular reason except his own nervousness. He came to truly loathe that faint sound from far below, the tiny scratches against stone that whispered of some presence in the lower catacombs. Basch didn't know what sort of creature could live down there, away from sun and air -- his imagination painted gruesome images of giant slugs and blind, monstrous spiders. The noise sounded irregularly, and each time Basch paused to cock his head and listen, mouth drawn into a grimace, his empty stomach tightened into knots and his hands clenched into fists. Then it would fade, as if moving off down endless tunnels, and slowly Basch would relax, rubbing his stubbled face and returning to his exercises.

The noise never came any closer to him, and for that small fact he was more grateful than he could say. Trapped behind bars, weakened from hunger and thirst, he would stand no chance against anything larger than a kitten, despite his self-imposed, half-challenging training regiment. Actually, considering the general nasty attitude of Vossler's cat, Basch wasn't sure he could even take on a small animal. He felt sick and lethargic nearly all the time; each lowering of the basket seemed like salvation. He wondered how long Vayne planned to keep him in this hell.

He wondered how long he could stand it.

* * *

Basch grew more used to the dark. His hearing sharpened; he could detect the footsteps of the silent guard who lowered his food down well before the man even entered the large chamber above the oubliette. The creaking of his cage as he paced, the ragged heave of his breath, even the thudding of his heart and the blood rushing in his pulse seemed to him as loud as trumpet fanfare.

Despite adapting, the blackness kept him unsettled and constantly on edge. He retreated to memory to try and escape the physical incarceration, letting his mind wander to a life before, when air smelled fresh and freedom taken for granted. Even when his traitorous thoughts lingered on the horror of the battle at Nabudis or the ruse in the Fortress above, Basch made himself sit and attend to every detail. At times he looked for what he might have done differently. Often he simply tried to reassure himself that he could have done nothing differently. Mostly, he sought to preserve detail and sound, colors and smells, textures and temperatures and anything to contrast the lulling sameness of weeks underground.

When Basch realized he could no longer recall the scent of his favorite spiced pastries wafting up from the Bazaar, he clutched his head in his hands and fought a swell of despair that threatened to engulf him. Other things started to fade from his mind: the feel of the fine abrasion of grit and sand against his skin when he rode patrol along the caravan routes, the precise shade of brown that lit Vossler's eyes when he flashed into fury, the taste of a beloved vintage horded against the cold desert nights.

He dreamed of his mother humming a lullaby, and lost the memory as he woke. Try as he might, he couldn't bring back the tune, the words, the sound of her gentle voice.

Fear roiled in his gut as he began to understand how easy it would be to lose himself completely.

The next time the basket lowered, he held on and tugged at the rope. He felt resistance on the other end, and heard a slight gasp and the shift of boots on stone. He let up on pulling, unwilling to drag the guard over the edge or have the man drop the rope in a panic.

"Please," he called -- or tried to. All that came out was a dry croak, and he nearly panicked, afraid he had lost his voice as well. "Please. _Please_."

Nothing from above. The rope went tight in his hand. Basch held on, shaking it a little, and tried again, this time managing to force some sound out past his lips.

"Please. Say something. Can you speak at all?"

The sound of his own voice terrified him; he sounded like something left for dead in the desert. He swallowed, coughed, and called out again. This time his voice sounded closer to normal, and he felt lightheaded in sudden relief.

"Please, talk to me? I need-- I need to hear something. Someone. Please. I cannot bear this silence..."

The rope jerked, burning his palm as it went through his loose fist. The bucket at the end banged into his arm, and Basch grabbed it in desperation.

"Please! Just say something. Anything. I need to hear another voice. You need not say anything about who you are. I'm not trying any tricks, I swear it. Please."

The rope went taut, the bucket slipped out of his grasp, and the cage rattled as he overbalanced and grabbed the bars to keep from falling. He listened desparingly to the rattle of the bucket as it clanged off the iron of his cell and was hauled swiftly over the lip of the hole. Footsteps rapidly retreated and the lights above began to dim.

"Please," Basch whispered. "Please, someone talk to me. Let me know I still live."

He sank to the floor of his prison as the lights went out, tucked his face between his bent knees, and shivered.

* * *

While the Imperial City of Archades held claim to the title of most technologically advanced city in Ivalice, some preferred more traditional surroundings. Vayne Solidor's study boasted cold glowstones in the elaborate wall sconces, and a stone-illuminated fixture set into the carved coffered ceiling. Despite those, he preferred the warm, natural flicker of a large blaze built into the deep fireplace on the eastern wall. A bank of windows took up the northern side of the room and overlooked the city; his study sat high enough in the Palace tower to be out from under the shadow of other buildings in Tsenoble. Unblocked, the tall casements let in sunlight throughout the day. Although lined with books and scrolls, and dominated by the framed map of the Valendian continent on the western wall, the space was large and open. Vayne's desk, a heavy thing of polished mahogany, stood before the windows, its surface littered with scraps of paper, folders, pens and ink stands, a large blotter, and three heavy tomes open to various pages and marked between others with several strips of thin leather. A round table covered with more paperwork and a lamp was positioned a couple of yards from the desk. A lushly cushioned couch rested invitingly near the fireplace, and several chairs stood in the room: two before the desk, one behind, two near the southern wall, and one opposite the couch.

The room was comfortable, a touch cluttered, warm, and bright. It looked like the room of a man who worked hard and gave little time to other pursuits. Rarely did Vayne offer any other impression. In fact, when the knock sounded at his door, he was so deeply engrossed in a report from Draklor Laboratories that he failed to look up. The second time, the knock was harsher, with the sharp clank of metal striking the heavy ironwood. Vayne permitted himself a small smile that quickly evaporated.

"Come in," he called, closing the folder and smoothly pulling another open file on top of it. He glanced up as the youngest and newest of the Judge Magisters stalked across the plush carpeting to stand precisely in front of his desk, back straight, eyes hidden in the shadows of his helm. Gabranth struck his plated chest in a sharp military salute. He held a plain beige folder in his other hand; the front bore a stamp in red ink and had a strip of red tape along the bind.

"My lord," Gabranth said, his voice echoing from within the heavy helmet, his tone distant. "I bear a report from Nalbina prisons."

"Oh?" Vayne sat back and raised an eyebrow. "Our guest, I assume? I trust he's doing well, given the unfortunate conditions of his habitat."

Gabranth's shoulders stiffened a bit, an involuntary motion that could have remained unnoticable if he didn't softly clank with each small movement. Vayne had wrestled long with the wisdom of allowing reports from the prison catacombs to flow through this particular Judge, but Gabranth had taken over the Ninth Bureau, the ministry of information. Despite faults, the foreign-born Judge showed an aptitude for investigation and had quickly rooted out and squashed deep-seated corruption in the ranks of the Ninth. After a few stepped-on toes and minor failures that were never repeated nor allowed to become major errors, Gabranth had the Bureau firmly in hand. His strict sense of justice -- one of the qualities Vayne labeled as a potential fault -- kept the men and women under him in line. He rewarded good work, removed those who got in his way or didn't produce to his high standards, and focussed all of his considerable will on achieving his goals.

Vayne had been pleased to find a way to leash the young hound before he got bitten himself.

He reached out for the report, noting the Judge's slight hesitation before passing it over. The Emperor's son said nothing, though, only flipped open the folder and skimmed the details written in Gabranth's cramped, neat hand. The corner of his lip quirked upwards and he sat back, allowing the folder to rest in his lap.

"So, he is experiencing some effects from the confinement. That's to be expected. I assume you have researched the likely progression of his sanity."

Gabranth nodded, still uncommunicative. Vayne despised the Judges' helms for the way they shielded their expressions, but his own status did not require their removal. Gabranth often chose to stay concealed, whether because he had difficulty controlling his countenance or to irritate Vayne, the younger man couldn't say.

"Speak, Gabranth. I would know your thoughts on the matter. After all, the man is your brother; surely you have a care for his health, physical and mental."

"My lord." Though the Judge's face remained hidden, Vayne saw the slight inward curl of gauntleted fingers. "I care little for his health, in any respect. He is a traitor; his punishment is just."

"I see. You have truly convinced yourself, Gabranth." The armored man shifted in a soft clatter, but Vayne pretended not to notice. "I am impressed by your unwavering loyalty to the Empire, despite the potential for blood to prove thicker than the steel you wear."

Black-gloved hands reached up and closed around the ram's horns that protruded from the worked metal helm. With a soft grunt, Gabranth removed his mask and frankly met Vayne's steady gaze. The Judge's blue-grey eyes were cold as the winters of his homeland, like the storms that came down from the Leamondes and pooled feet of bitter snow in the valleys of Landis. Through murder, betrayal, and trial, Gabranth had submitted to Vayne's magicks and Draklor's concoctions without a flicker of heat or a demuring word. Faram alone knew what went on in the man's head; his motions nearly always divulged his cold anger but never his thoughts.

Such control amused Vayne. He could so easily predict this foreign Judge, and what he could predict, he could use. And misuse, should it suit him.

"My lord," Gabranth said for the third time, and through a constricted throat, by the sound. "I am sworn to the Empire. No matter my past, my future is with Archadia. What more must I do to prove myself? Whom else must I slay for you?"

"You are an executioner, Judge Magister," Vayne replied mildly. "It is the role you don along with your armor. You should not complain when called upon to fulfil it."

"I didn't--" He stopped, compressed his lips into a thin white line, and inhaled deeply through his nose. "My lord. I meant no complaint."

"Of course not. A sudden promotion brings a flurry of responsibilities. You must be feeling overwhelmed." He tilted his head, allowing the dark spill of his hair, a mask nearly as effective as a Judge's helm, to fall over half his face. "Why not take a few days off?"

Gabranth's fair brows knit over the bridge of his nose. He frowned, seemed to remember his bared face, and smoothed out his expression with a small effort. "That would not be possible at this time. As you know, Rozarria has just instituted a draft; this bodes ill for the future. Several investigations are ongoing. And word has reached me of small groups of men surreptitiously transporting supplies to remote areas of the desert. It is likely the Dalmascans are beginning to organize a resistance movement. The Emperor --" he gave the words slight emphasis -- "requires my presence and the productivity of all those within the Ninth at the present."

Vayne shrugged and placed the open folder on his desk for further study. "A pity. Perhaps in a few weeks' time, then. It would do my father poorly to have his Magister suffer from lack of sleep. My brother, too, would be unhappy."

For the first time, Gabranth's stern features softened. "Aye, my lord. Is there ought more you require of me? I am shortly due to meet your brother in the salle."

"Nothing further at the moment. Thank you for bringing the report. You may go."

Gabranth replaced his helm, saluted perfectly, and left in a swirl of his heavy black cape.

Vayne looked down again at the papers in front of him. The Dalmascan general showed signs of cracking. It would soon be advantageous to interrogate the man, to determine what he might know of hidden places in the shifting sands. To pull from him names of heroic men others might rally around, before any sort of insurgency could gain momentum. To alleviate some of his discomfort and keep him useful as a lever against the too-wily Marquis of Bhujerba.

To find out what he might be hearing in the fathomless dark.


End file.
